“Yeah, I—” I stopped. “Seriously?”
“We were wondering,” she continued, turning her attention to tidying up her perfectly neat desk, “if we provided you with personal copies, if you could have your brother sign them.”
“Really? Gil would completely love that. He’s never had a real book signing before, which I guess is just as well because he can’t exactly show up as a guy when everyone’s expecting Miranda.”
“Yes, I can see how that would cause some problems. Thank you. Becky, you’ll have to remember to return the copy of The Rules of Passion I lent you,” Ms. Macartney said. “I’d love to have him autograph the full set.”
CHAPTER
24
At three o’clock sharp on Friday afternoon, Becky walked me out to the main gate, her fingers white-knuckled on a small stack of books. My brother and sisters were waiting with a private carpet, courtesy of King Steve. Gil was off it the moment he saw us, giving me a speedy pat on the head as he raced over to Becky. It was a little funny watching them, Becky so spine-straight and formal, calling him “sir,” which had Olivia snorting with laughter, and Gil gushing and excited as he gleefully signed his way through a small stack of books, exclaiming, “This is what authors do!”
“I thought authors wrote,” Alexa called from the carpet.
“Writers write,” Gil returned. “Authors get book signings.”
They stood there, talking about how Rafe was so much cooler than Enrique, and was he ever going to get to Jamie’s story, until Olivia started to glance around and wonder loudly didn’t some of us have an appointment with someone important, and wasn’t there a madwoman still on the loose? That made Alexa laugh. “You really think it’s just the five of us out here? And that we’re going to fly on down to the castle all by our lonesome? That’s cute.”
“I can point out the hidden Kingsmen if you want,” I offered.
“Later,” said Olivia. “Time, Abby.” Gil and I climbed on the carpet and waved good-bye to Becky as we sped off.
“All right.” Alexa rubbed her hands together. “We have five minutes for endearing family chat. How is everyone doing? What’s new? What have I missed?”
“I’m not doing too bad, but Olivia’s only had three dates this week,” Gil said. “She’s hoping we’ll drop her off at the nearest man while we go meet your King Steve.”
“I am making a strategic decision to date less,” Olivia informed us. “Mom keeps hitting me with the whole ‘why don’t you find a serious boyfriend and settle down’ thing.”
“Which means she’s going to be coming after me instead, thank you very much,” Alexa replied.
Olivia and Gil looked at each other and giggled. “You could try being honest with her,” Gil said.
“Because we all know the ‘you don’t have a boyfriend’ thing isn’t exactly true, is it?” Olivia finished.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” said Alexa. “I’m going to ignore you two and talk to my favorite sibling now. How are your classes going?” Alexa asked me.
“Good. Really good. Really, really good.”
“Except you’re having problems with realism,” Gil added.
“There’s no point to realism,” I said.
“It’s about technique. You have to learn technique if you want to get anywhere,” Gil said.
“I don’t need technique; I’m never going to write anything.”
“You’re not supposed to like school,” Olivia told me.
“I know, I know, I know,” I said at Olivia’s expression. “I’m sorry. I promise, O, I promise I’ll stop next year. Except I hear Second Year is really boring. Except for self-defense,” I added. “All the kids say that next year’s self-defense is much more interesting, because we’re actually going to learn to flip somebody. Like, over our back. But nobody usually gets hurt. It’s all okay.”
Gil turned to Alexa. “What are you teaching these children?”
Alexa shrugged. “Hey, we’re just trying to train our own child army.”
After dropping Gil off at the publishing house and Olivia off to go shopping, Alexa and I continued on to the palace.
The royal palace is the pearl that makes the rest of the city look like the oyster. Even on an overcast day, it glowed like it was covered in fairy dust—which it probably was. Red banners flapped in the breeze and streamed down the sides. A red carpet led the way to the main entrance, an ornate set of garnet doors larger than most buildings. It was guarded by several very attractive guards in fancy uniforms so deep red they looked black until the light hit them.
The castle is just about the only place in the city where you see red. That shade of deep red is strictly a royal color, so it’s all over the castle and nowhere else, except places like museums and libraries that get a lot of royal funding.
We bypassed the main entrance, which Alexa says is for “show and tourists,” to a side door, the same color as the castle walls, so that it blended in. Opening it was a complicated procedure involving three keys, two palm prints, a rosemary twig, and exactly one half handful of lavender. And it wasn’t so much “opening” the door as making it go all wobbly and stepping through it.
Inside was a discreet hallway and a pair of guards in subdued uniforms. The hallway was small (or at least that’s how it was presenting itself) and painted beige, with a plain visible door at the other end, and a handful of invisible openings along the walls.
The guards saluted Alexa with a crisp “Miss Hale,” and checked my ID so thoroughly I started to wonder if they were going to let us by. Finally, they stepped aside and Alexa dragged me through the door.
Inside, it was completely dark. It was more than just dark, which would mean that there wasn’t a lot of light. There was no light at all.
“Wonderful,” Alexa muttered.
“Is this supposed to happen?” I asked.
She sighed. The sound hovered in the air over my head. “Yes. That is, the castle has dark days sometimes.”
“Safety procedures?” I guessed.
“Yes. But she never tells us when exactly—here, hold my hand—exactly when she’s going dark.”
“How do I know this is you?” I asked, tugging on the warm hand in mine.
“It’s not me. It’s a bloodthirsty ghooost …” Her voice echoed throughout … wherever we were. “But seriously, it’s me.”
“I figured that one out.”
“Actually, there probably is a ghost around here somewhere,” Alexa informed me as she dragged me forward, “but my guess is it’s just spying on us. Won’t turn into corporal form. Too easy to see that way.”
“Why spy on us at all? King Steve knows we’re coming.” Something glinted oddly in the dark, and I realized those were her eyes.
“Well, it might not be us. It could be someone enchanted to look like us. Best to keep an eye on us just in case.”
I clutched Alexa’s hand and tried to keep track of where we were going, but it was no use. She led me left and right and left and around to a set of the steepest set of stairs I’d ever skidded down. The air felt cool and misty around us, like fog clinging to my ankles, and Alexa’s footsteps slowed, as if she were fighting against something. We passed by a clacking, skittering on the right; Alexa jerked me away and hissed something that made the scuttling move in the opposite direction.
Not long after, the air changed. It grew warmer and lighter. I could feel the mist around our ankles dissipate, and I could hear Alexa start to move easier. She stopped and said, “Close your eyes.”
I did, not that there was much difference from having my eyes open. There was some scratching and a big heavy clunk, then the squeaky screech of a door opening. I sensed light on my face. After a moment Alexa led me forward. “Careful, Abby. Your eyes will need time to adjust.”
We weren’t in an office. I’d expected an office. Maybe some official waiting room. Instead, we were in a small sitting room, with a lot of latticed windows, through which daylight streamed in. A c
ouch, a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, and a low polished coffee table were clustered around a big fireplace—much bigger than me, and almost as big as Alexa. The couch cushions were ornately embroidered, and the coffee table was heavy and beautifully carved. There were stacks of books towering against all available wall space, a to-do list tacked up on the back of the door, and a burdened coat rack (holding, among other things, a bathrobe, a long heavily embroidered cloak, and a ruby-studded crown). The whole room smelled faintly of tea and firewood.
King Steve was sitting in a tall-backed chair, reading the entertainment section of a newspaper. He had his shoes off and looked about as relaxed as a king probably ever gets. He didn’t look up as we came in, but Alexa didn’t seem to mind, or notice. “Help yourselves,” he said, “I’ll be done in a second.”
A tea service set itself out on the coffee table, and there was also one of those tiered trays of sweets. Mostly cookies, and mostly the ones half-dipped in chocolate that Alexa likes, but there were also the golden, buttery kind filled with little pockets of jam. The pot poured out two cups and then hovered impatiently over a third until I said, “Oh, yes, thank you.” The cups are supposed to come to you, but this one floated to a spot on the couch, then jiggled until I got the hint and hurried over to sit down. A tiny spoon dipped into the sugar bowl and paused, like a question mark. I held out my cup and said, “Three, please,” but it only gave me two, and when I tried to grab it to get another it flew away and hid in a cupboard.
“You have to be firm with her,” King Steve said, setting aside his paper. “She’s been hearing too much about the evils of refined sugar, and”—he raised his voice—“not enough about minding her own business.” There was an angry scratching from deep in the cupboard, but the spoon didn’t come out.
“I have this for you.” I reached in my pocket, and the walls rippled at me as three Kingsmen started to shift into view. I froze. “It’s a card.”
“A card. Thank you.” King Steve held out his hand. He didn’t even glance at his guards.
“Exactly. I mean, it’s a thank-you card.” I maneuvered the bright purple card out of my pocket and handed it over—slowly. “It’s my mom’s idea. I mean, you can thank me all you want, but Mom suggested it. For taking this on yourself.”
“Alexa asked me to.” King Steve paused. “She is my … close friend. And my situation is not one that promotes friendships.” (Alexa shook her head and muttered something about sappy.)
King Steve helped me to the sweets himself, which was only partly his being nice and partly because whenever I moved, the Kingsmen would start fading into being. One stationed himself right by me, and another behind King Steve’s chair, so it was better if I just sat still and didn’t make any abrupt gestures. He handed me a loaded plate, and I pulled one cookie apart slowly, hoping for strawberry, knowing I’d still have to eat it if it was apricot.
They were all strawberry.
King Steve set his cup down and said, “Abby, you know why I asked you to come here.”
“Alexa said you were going to sentence Barbarian Mike,” I said.
He nodded. “Quite harshly too. Before I close the case, I’d like to hear your version of events.”
“I’m not sure if there’s anything left to tell that I haven’t told everybody already.”
“Still, I would appreciate it if you refreshed my memory.”
So I told him about how we stopped at the sideshow and saw the nice ord who was employed, not imprisoned, and how Peter and I had recognized Barbarian Mike and his girlfriend, and Peter ran off and I followed. I told him about the old building where we sat all night while Trixie chucked rocks at me. And that the next day I tried to get away again and this time it worked.
I told him about all the other stuff, too, like how everyone was super-careful around me for a while after that but eventually they went back to normal, thank goodness, except for Peter, but I didn’t tell him about that. And then Alexa said that Becky told her she had to come wake me up every now and again because I was having nightmares. I told Alexa that was supposed to be private (because who wants to seem like a baby who gets bad dreams in front of the king?) and besides, it’s not like I could sue Barbarian Mike and Trixie for lack of sleep or anything like that.
King Steve said, “Technically, you could file a complaint for personal suffering due to actions taken therein, et cetera. Personally, I’m willing to stack on as many claims as possible, even if they were to be brought into effect retroactively.” He smiled at Alexa. She eyed him back pointedly, somewhere between glaring and smiling. “Any other aches or pains?” he continued, turning back to me. “Splinters?”
“No splinters. I don’t even have any scars—look.” I held my arms out for inspection. Jeremy was still baffled at how it managed to heal up so clean and neat without a single drop of magic. “I … had a sore throat for a little bit because I screamed a lot.”
“Wonderful. Sore throats carry a very serious penalty.”
“Seriously?”
“Very serious,” King Steve informed me. “I think that would fall under the heading of emotional distress. And it’s more a matter of the judge determining if the complaint is valid. Fortunately for you, I am the judge in this case, and I’m in a humor to determine that any complaint you make is valid.”
“Is that fair?” I asked.
Alexa choked on her tea. “Fair?”
King Steve shrugged. “I am not overly concerned with fairness where kidnappers are concerned.”
We had to go over everything a couple of times to get it all straight. The king asked us to stay for dinner, but by the time we finished I had to head back to school to get in by curfew. King Steve walked us to the door of his private quarters and paused. “I have to invite you to witness the sentence carried out,” he began. “It’s standard practice, and as the victim you have a right to be there. So, Miss Abigail Hale, you are hereby formally invited to see the sentence carried out against one Barbarian Mike. But I’m asking you not to come. It’s not a pleasant thing to witness, even if you have seen it a hundred times. It’s not the sort of thing a little girl should ever have to see.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“Thank you. Just know that he will never bother you or anyone else again.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” I asked, thinking about Peter’s hatred for Barbarian Mike.
“Well, the sentence is severe when you’re dealing with treason.”
“Treason?”
King Steve looked at Alexa. Alexa looked at King Steve. “Yes,” she finally said. “Treason.”
“But I thought that’s only for the most serious crimes.” I gaped. “Betraying the country. Attacks against the royal family.”
“It is applicable to a certain number of other charges,” King Steve answered. “And kidnapping an ord is one of then.”
“So what are you going to do to him?” I asked.
“I’m going to Banish him.” I could hear the capital letter when he said it. “And you promised you weren’t going to come.”
“No, I don’t want to come.” Nobody in their right mind wants to see that. Banishment isn’t a simple “get out of here, we never want to see you again.” It’s a nasty business, and you end up in a nasty place, and even those who eventually return are shattered, broken shadows, jumping at birdsong and quaking in the corners. “Can I see him?” I asked suddenly. “I’d like to … if that’s okay. Before it happens.”
King Steve lifted his eyebrows, but he said, “Yes, of course. If you wish it. He’s been staying with us here at the palace. We could go right now, if you like.”
CHAPTER
25
Barbarian Mike was vacationing in the palace dungeons, which were, as King Steve explained, reserved for his most exclusive guests. So it was a simple matter of finding the right staircase—there were several, mostly real but a few of them illusions, and all of them enchanted—and then heading down. (It was a simple matter,
actually, for an ord.)
The stairs curled downward, below the wide windows and rich beauty of the palace, to where heavy dark stonework closed in around us. Past the afternoon light and the humid patter of rain on the paving stones to someplace dim and chilly, where the air began to condense on my skin.
The staircase, when we finally found the right one and it stopped shifting directions on us, leveled off into a small, narrow hallway, lined every now and then with dimly flickering torches. After I almost walked into a wall, King Steve offered me his arm. “This is, alas, one circumstance in which we have the advantage, my girl,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a night-vision spell. And he was right. Down in the dungeons, it was barely light enough to see where you were going.
“You could always turn up the lights,” I suggested as King Steve tugged me out of the way of something.
“I could.” His voice was thoughtful. “The old king redecorated this place around the time my elder brother was born. I suppose he thought it wasn’t intimidating enough, and, to be fair, my warden tells me that proper atmosphere does half his work for him. Don’t worry, your eyes will adjust shortly. Everyone duck!” he called out cheerfully, putting a hand on my back and pushing me down. Something long and thin whistled as it sliced through the air right above our heads, glinting faintly. “Everyone still have their heads?”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Alexa asked, and I could hear the suppressed laughter.
“Not in the least.” King Steve guided me to the far edge of the hallway, the floor under our feet narrowing until we had to inch along with our backs to the wall. I could see well enough to make out the huge gaping darkness in the middle of the floor. An impatient, brassy hooting came from inside it. “Whose turn is it to feed the manticore?” King Steve asked.
The dungeons were mostly empty. It was a slow time of year, the king explained, when even criminal masterminds preferred to stay inside and plot as they waited for the end of the wet season. “We’ll fill up again as soon as spring comes, but at the moment Mr…. Barbarian is our only guest. Isn’t that so, Michael?” He came to a stop in front of a cell, thick black bars crossing between us and—him.
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